


One Place

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Home and Away [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Multiverse, clone!Jack +/ Any, finding a new place to get away from things for awhile."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Place

Jonathan had told himself he’d use this second chance to be everything he wasn’t before, to be all the things he wasn’t allowed to be. So he kept a picture of Evan Lorne in his wallet (maybe or maybe not illicitly downloaded after he hacked the SGC’s personnel database on its secure server, because if he wanted to blend into this generation, he had to be more computer savvy). And he talked about his feelings.

Not to anyone else, mind you.

Well, not exactly.

One place he’d never frequented Before was the grave of Charles Tyler O’Neill. He’d been there once, for the funeral. He’d ordered flowers to be sent there every year on Charlie’s birthday, but he’d never visited. Till now. It was one place in Colorado Springs he was guaranteed not to run into the Old Guy (Evan hadn’t told him what the Old Guy was up to after his promotion, but after the hack, Jonathan knew he was in DC. Still - no risk of running into him here if he came back to Colorado Springs for a visit). Now Jonathan came whenever he needed to clear his head. He’d sprawl on Charlie’s grave, tuck up against his headstone like it was the worst pillow ever, and just...talk. At the sky. To Charlie. To the universe.

And he talked about what he felt. How much it sucked, having been booted out of the life he’d built, painstakingly, for decades, with blood, sweat, and more tears than the Old Guy would ever admit. How much it sucked, being treated like a damn kid. How much fun he had working on engines, and how Dean reminded him of Charlie, sometimes, with his dark blond hair and his cocky little grin. How Dean was a little younger than Charlie would have been, had he lived. He talked about his nightmares - Iraq, Ba’al, all the death and pain in between. He talked about Evan, too.

Sometimes he didn’t talk at all, brought a packed lunch on a sunny day, sat back against the headstone and curled his knees to his chest and listened to the entirety of La Boheme. Or composed long letters to Evan that were half book report, half love song. (He never sent the letters, had nowhere to send them to that wouldn’t get Evan into horrible amounts of trouble, so he kept them under his bed in the box where he kept all the books Evan sent and the rings he only dared wear when he knew he was alone.) One time he brought a baseball and a glove and threw the ball up in the air and caught it over and over and over again.

On the bad days, he knelt beside the tombstone and wept and said he was sorry.

He never, ever saw Sara there.


End file.
